Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Could be a big deal.” Gastner nodded. “That’s the temptation, of course. National exposure like that doesn’t come along every day. That magazine has one of the largest circulations in the country. Hot stuff.” He shook his head. “We all knew this time would come, didn’t we. The coverage at the Cruces concert was a hint of that.”

“Por supuesto, padrino , but it’s coming too soon.”

“Everything comes too soon. Christ, all this philosophizing is starving me. Anything I can do for you? You have someone sitting the wreck? They’re not going to tow it up out of there tonight, are they?”

“No. Jackie’s watching over it. You can cruise down that way and keep her company, if you want.”

“Might do that. I saw you zipping up the street, and wanted to check with you about this celebrity stuff.”

“ Ay , celebrity stuff,” she laughed.

“She wants to interview me at one o’clock,” Gastner said.

“One? As in today at one? This afternoon?”

“That’s it. Striking while the iron is hot sort of thing. Won’t be long before your little one’s mug is on the front pages of the newspapers in the grocery store checkout racks, right there with all the alien abductions.”

“Stop it.”

He laughed. “How’s your mom, by the way? She recover from having a birthday?”

“Just,” Estelle replied. Teresa Reyes had turned ninety-five years old the week previous, and had grumbled about the attention the special day had brought. A visit from Román and Marta Diaz and two of their children from Tres Santos had been an unexpected treat for Teresa. Román and Marta, her former neighbors in the tiny Mexican village where she had lived and taught school, had purchased Teresa’s modest little home and the twelve acres surrounding it five years before.

“I wish I knew her secret,” Gastner said. “I’m seventy-three and feel like crap most of the time. She’s got me by twenty-plus years and seems to be getting younger every goddamn day.”

“She’s had her bouts,” Estelle said.

“Well, yeah…she has. Anyhow, I’ll let you go. I’m about to faint from hunger.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. “And I will swing by and chat with Jackie a bit later. This story lady is going to talk with her, too? That’s the impression I got.”

“Sin duda. And Linda. And Gayle. And Leona, I would imagine.”

“Well, damn. And it’s all my fault, isn’t it. I started it all by hiring you. Look where it got us.”

“Sure enough, sir.”

He touched the brim of his baseball cap in salute. “Well, I did good, if I do say so myself. Behave yourself. You’re sure there’s nothing that you don’t want me to tell the story lady?”

“Positive, sir. She’ll find out for herself.”

He waved a casual salute and swung up into the truck. She watched him drive off, the diesel engine emitting a low, guttural clatter.

Inside the Public Safety Building, the air was institutional, stuffy and tinged with disinfectant. The “fresh evergreen scent” advertised on the side of the jug of cleaner that the custodian dispensed into the mop bucket bore little resemblance to the real thing-the damp air of Regál Pass, tinged with piñon and juniper.

Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler had gone home as his shift ended, replaced by Brent Sutherland. Brent looked up as Estelle entered, and lifted a hand in salute.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s going. Everything else quiet?”

“More or less.” He leaned forward and looked at the log. “Since I came on, I’ve had a handful of calls. Edith Mallory is still arguing with her husband, who is still drinking. The schnauzer over on Tenth Street is still barking, and Mrs. Sanchez is still irritated at that . And the clerk over at Portillo’s called to say that he’s got a bunch of rowdies who can’t find anything better to do than gather in his parking lot. Abeyta is going to swing by there when he’s finished with the Mallorys.”

“Wonderful. Did Dennis go home yet?”

“I think he’s still in the workroom.”

The telephone rang and Brent reached up to swing the headset boom back into place. “Posadas Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.” Estelle turned away, headed for her own office. She heard Brent say, “We’ll have someone swing by there in just a few minutes, Bernie.” He listened for another minute. “No, don’t do that. Just hang tight, all right?”

Estelle stopped with one hand on the doorknob of her office. At the same time, Dennis Collins appeared, a sheaf of papers in hand. He dropped several of them in the office in-basket, then headed for the bank of filing cabinets across the room.

“Just a minute,” Sutherland said. “Estelle,” he called, “this is Bernie Pollis over at Portillo’s again. He’s got a group of kids over there chuckin’ rocks at each other.”

“As long as it’s at each other,” Deputy Collins observed.

“Jackie’s down in Regál, and Pasquale is way the hell and gone down by María.”

Collins sighed and shoved the remaining papers into the file. “I go right by there on my way home. I’ll stop by and send ’em all home. I don’t know what the heck kids are doing out at one o’clock in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” Estelle said.

“You betcha.”

As she closed the door of her office, she heard Sutherland back on the phone, assuring Bernie Pollis that an officer was en route. Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store was three blocks away. Had Estelle stepped outside to the front steps of the Public Safety Building, she knew, she would have been able to hear the kids yelling back and forth.

Settling behind her desk, she turned the police radio down, then out of habit more than anything else awoke her computer. The list of e-mails included nothing that required immediate action, and most of them were taken care of with the delete key. With her office window closed, she could not hear the single gunshot that came from three blocks away, nor did she hear Deputy Collins’ frantic ten-sixty call.

With the right circumstances, a quiet little village could produce a huge audience out of thin air. Only moments had passed from the time she was alerted to Deputy Collins’ call for assistance to the moment when Estelle pulled to a jarring stop in front of Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store, but she wasn’t surprised that the crowds were gathering.

Parked askew just ramped up on the Grande entrance to the parking lot was Deputy Collins’ Expedition, one of the newest in the fleet. A black-and-white State Police cruiser blocked the other parking lot entrance. Pulled into the curb, looking like an abandoned derelict, was Sheriff Robert Torrez’s battered pickup.

As Estelle climbed out of her car, she saw that Richard Black, the State Policeman, had five youngsters gathered at a late model SUV on one side of the convenience store, while Bob Torrez was engaged in animated conversation with four other people on the opposite side of the parking lot by the fuel pumps. His audience included a middle-aged woman, two young girls, and Bernie Pollis, who appeared from behind the store, walking sideways like a crab, looking over his shoulder at whatever the shadows hid. Torrez appeared to be holding something against the woman’s head. She leaned her rump against the back fender of the Volvo parked at the pumps.

Deputy Collins stood by his vehicle with one hand on the right front fender. He appeared to be watching Officer Black.

“Dennis, are you all right?” Estelle asked, and as she stepped closer she saw that the Expedition’s windshield had been one of the targets. Something had exploded on the glass in front of the driver, and the parking lot lights glistened on the liquid that had splashed across the glass, hood, and fender. From several paces away, she could smell the beer.